


i swear by all flowers

by LittleMissMandalore



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 14:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11876367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMandalore/pseuds/LittleMissMandalore
Summary: Mara learns just how fragile life really is.





	i swear by all flowers

**Author's Note:**

> For Tumblr's Redwall Fic Month. Prompt: flowers.

_all the flowers of the mountain_

            Spring comes, and Salamandastron’s slopes burst into brilliant flower. Heather, crinium lilies, mallow. The sun is high and bright, but cool winds whisk in from the north and west, keeping everyone from overheating. The prettiest of the Long Patrol hares receive posies of blossoms from adoring admirers, and they wear them proudly tied into the neck of their tunic or tucked behind their ears. Every window is open, and with every breath, everybeast can taste the sea and the fresh scent of new-growing things.  It’s spring at Salamandastron.

            Mara hates it.

            “C’mon,” Pikkle says. He’s been bobbing around Mara’s room for the past ten minutes while she sulks on her bed – first at the window, then at the door, then in the closet and under the bed and back to the window again. “You’ll feel better outside. I swear.”

            “Don’t let Urthstripe hear you swearing,” Mara mumbles.

            Swearing is the source of Mara’s latest mood. On her way out of the dining hall this morning, she stubbed her footpaw on one of the legs of the great oaken table and used a couple of curse words that burned the ears of every hare within twenty feet. Urthstripe hadn’t been there, but he’d heard, of course, and before too long she was getting a talking-to on the manner in which a proper young badger lady should express herself. Mara slunk away a half an hour later and she’s been facedown on her bed ever since.

            “He shouldn’t have been so hard on you,” Pikkle says. “Didn’t you learn all those words from him?”

            When she was a babe, too little to walk or even crawl around on her own, Urthstripe used to take Mara with him everywhere. She distantly remembers lying in her cradle in the forge room, listening to the sound of hammers on metal and Urthstripe’s cursing every time he made a mistake. It’s a good memory – or it was, Mara thinks sourly, until Urthstripe took her to task for using a bunch of words that he uses regularly. Mara groans and buries her face in her pillow again.

            Pikkle sits down on the edge of the bed, kicking his footpaws against the side. “You’ll feel better outside, Mara-my-lass. We can go swimming!”

            Mara keeps her face in the pillow until it becomes too difficult to breathe. She turns her head to the side and glares at Pikkle. “It’s too cold for swimming.”

            “Is not.”

            “Is, too!”

            “Only if you’re a scaredy-stripedog,” Pikkle singsongs. Mara swats at him and he leaps off the bed and out of range. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

            “It’ll be cold,” Mara corrects, but she sits up and settles her footpaws on the floor. “Come on, then, scoffer – let’s do it before I change my mind.”

            They make their way down through the passages of the mountain, heading for the main entrance onto the beach. Salamandastron’s hallways are deserted. Almost everybeast is outside enjoying the bright sun and the scant warmth it provides. The sand is cold underneath Mara’s footpaws. She follows Pikkle past the groups of reveling hares towards the water, noting the flowers adorning every pretty haremaid in the Long Patrol. Mara quickens her pace, draws even with Pikkle. “Did you give flowers to anybeast?”

            “Me? Of course not!” Pikkle skips a few steps ahead of her and breaks into a comical dance. “I’m a rogue, I am! I can’t be tamed by any one maid! There’s no tying me down!”

            They’re almost to the edge of the waves, and they aren’t the only ones with the idea of going swimming. Shorebuck, Pennybright, Lingfur, and Barfle are all wading gingerly into the pounding surf, paws wrapped around themselves and shivering. Pikkle bounces in after them, but his own progress is quickly checked by the cold. Mara has to fight a smile. “Still think swimming will make me feel better?”

            “H-h-how will you know,” Pikkle says, turning back towards her, “if you don’t try it?”

            “Oh, don’t d-d-do that, Mara,” Pennybright says. “It’s too cold.”

            Pikkle meets Mara’s eyes, mouths _scaredy-stripedog_ at her, and before Mara can think better of it, she lurches forward into the water, splashing in up to her waist. Pikkle wasn’t kidding – it is cold – but it’s not so cold that Mara can’t handle it. She takes a step forward, then another. The waves break against her waist, splattering her chest, flinging droplets up to her headstripes, sending a chill down her spine.

            Mara spins around to face Pikkle. “You were right, you old scoffer! I do feel better.”

            “G-g-good,” Pikkle stammers. “I’m g-g-getting out.”

            Let him get out. Mara’s not ready to go yet. She wades a little further out into the water, until it rises to her chest, and bends down, submerging her face in the sea.

            Mara forces her eyes open against the sting of the salt water and peers around at the ocean floor. There are shiny black rocks embedded in the sand, and small, dull-colored fish dart around them. Further away, Mara can see dancing fields of kelp, illuminated haphazardly by the spring sun above. The current tugs at Mara’s ankles, but she steadies herself, flailing her arms to regain her balance. It’s quiet under the water, quiet and peaceful and _vast_ , the kind of place Mara could hide away in forever.

            It almost hurts to break the surface, but there’s a tightness in Mara’s chest, and she knows she needs to come up for air. She straightens up again. She has time for one deep breath, and a moment to wonder why the water’s come up so high, before the wave hits her full in the face and knocks her down.

            Mara manages to hold onto her last breath of air, but only just, as the water sucks her off her feet and further into the sea. Her footpaws strike the sandy bottom and she pushes off, kicking hard for the surface. This time, she gets in two breaths before the waves rip her footing out from beneath her, before a dark fist of water strikes the air from her lungs. The sea floor seems farther away; so does the surface; and, when Mara’s head breaks the surface for the third time, so does the shore.

            Mara tries to call for help, but every time she opens her mouth, water rushes in. She tries to wave her arms, to draw attention to herself, but every time she stops her frantic flailing in the water, she sinks further. It takes her longer and longer to come up each time, and as she does, she starts to see strange things moving along the shore. There’s a shining sword, reflecting the sunlight and almost blinding her. There’s a shimmering army marching along the beach. She sees a pair of eyes, as blue as the distant sky above her. And everywhere she sees flowers, purple and yellow and bright blood-red, blooming on the sand, filling her vision.

           

            When Mara comes to, the first thing she’s aware of is Urthstripe, looming over her. His headstripes are soaked, and the sun behind his head sends a million rainbow fragments of light scattering over Mara’s face. He looks angry. Mara opens her mouth to speak, but instead she ends up sucking in air like she’s never tasted it before. She can’t seem to make herself stop gasping, and she struggles to force the words out. “Sorry –”

            “Give her space, Lord Urthstripe!” someone shouts. Mara thinks she recognizes the voice – Seawood? “Let her breathe!”

            Urthstripe shifts back ever so slightly. Mara takes a huge breath. “Sorry for – swearing –”

            “I don’t give a damn about swearing,” Urthstripe says, and Mara manages a sound somewhere between a snort and a giggle. “You scared me, Mara! What on earth possessed you to go out there?”

            “It was my fault, milord,” Pikkle says, scrambling to Mara’s side. “I’m the one who told her to come swimmin’!”

            “It’s – my fault,” Mara says, coughing. “I waded out too far.”

            “That you did, lassie,” Seawood says. He puts a paw behind Mara’s head and helps her sit up, and Windpaw scurries in from the other side, draping a blanket around Mara’s shoulders. “It’s a good job Lord Urthstripe was watchin’ from the forge room – if he hadn’t seen you go under, you might well have drowned.”

            “I was drowning?” Mara struggles to wrap her head around  the idea. She remembers being pummeled by the waves, remembers going under – and after that, all she remembers are the visions she saw on the beach. “I saw flowers.”

            “What?”

            “Flowers,” Mara says. “Yellow and purple and red. So many red flowers.”

            Urthstripe takes Seawood’s place holding Mara up, and for a moment, Mara feels like an infant again, safe in his arms. He saved her, she realizes. He was watching her from the forge room, and he saved her. When he speaks, his voice is rough with worry. “There are no red flowers this time of year.”

            “It was probably just a hallucination,” Seawood says. “When you aren’t breathin’ right, your mind shows you all sorts of things. Red flowers aren’t the strangest thing a drowning creature’s ever seen.”

            Urthstripe helps Mara to her feet. Then, when it becomes clear she can’t stand on her own, he sweeps her into his arms easily and starts back towards the mountain. Mara’s eyelids feel heavy. “Don’t be angry at Pikkle,” she says. “It wasn’t his fault.”

            “I’m not angry with Pikkle, Browneye.” A shadow passes over Urthstripe’s face. “I’m only worried about you.”

            “I’m okay,” Mara says. Her eyes fall shut, and she wrenches them back open. For a moment, she thinks she sees the red flowers again, blooming on Urthstripe’s chest, at his throat, in the dark pupils of his eyes. Then she blinks again, and they’re gone. She sighs, deep and low. “I’m sorry I swore.”

            “I’m sorry I yelled,” Urthstripe says. “Just rest.”

            Mara lets her eyes fall shut. Red flowers on the beach, red flowers in Urthstripe's eyes. So much red. 


End file.
